The Greatest Sword in the West
by gawainthegreen
Summary: She was a dancer by nature and by fashion. The court was sombre and cruel, the people hard and of few words. It was summer when she fell.
1. Prologue: Upon the Dunes

**The Greatest Sword in the West**

**Upon the dunes**

There is nothing left now, the rivers have run dry and the air reeks of abandonment. Equipment seems ancient, buried beneath but a year of dust, unfulfilled, and squandered in the empty desert so wilful, so secretive. Who now would know what blood ran freely here, what love? Who now remembers the faithful, fateful dance, desperate and final that shifted the somnolent, wild sands into a shimmering frenzy, choking, desperate and earthly? It was love too, of the earth, human and hungry, love that would not be held by the trappings of civilisation. That night the earth sang with the movement of feet bewitched, with a dance, a ritual passionate and reckless lust. It is all gone and the somnolent sand keeps its own counsel and none, wise nor foolish will tread upon her, love her changing moods, infinite and immovable.

He shimmers in the heavy throbbing sun, white and piercing, in robes that flow in the arid, sullen breeze like waves within a brewing storm. Alone and silent, deep in thought that not even the storms of raging sands can overcome, he is, eyes fixed upon that one place that memory itself seems to have forgotten. The midday sun reaches its climax, the sands vacant and tireless sweep the dry air, burning with unquenchable heat, and he is gone. Footprints begin to fade in the growing tsunami of dust; as though neither he nor any other had ever been.


	2. The Kingdom in the Sand

The Kingdom in the Sand

The Kingdom in the Sand

The approach to the Kingdom in the sand is like the journey through a dream. The eyes, vision filtered by rays of sand, view colours, altered and dulled until all seems filmed in sepia. High winds often disturb the restless dunes, which even at rest quake with an uneasy beat and to walk upon them seems to fight against life itself, each step a day's journey. The eyes too are wrapped, thick in choking cloth that fends the skin against that which would scar it. The Kingdom then appears, first a dreadful mirage, swirling in mist as though upon a humid morning, appearing and reappearing at intervals as the swirling sands allow only for glimpses. It is not until you are at the gate and the walls, thick as mountains, are within arm's reach that you see it and then it is as though a curtain has been lifted back and the first act of a great play is about to begin.

So it was that a man of the North, ill built for desert sun and blistering sands, lost and found himself, flying, south as the crow flies, from the lands of the north where the ever present shadow hangs over all things.

He had been alone. South he had marched for many weeks, risking the cool and wistful shades of Ithilien, casting a watchful eye upon the white tower of Tirith, where the remnants of Numenor dwell, huddled against the gathering twilight. There had been a battle which began around him, bloody and hot and saturated with death. He had fought in many battles, but for this he had been ill prepared, weapons finding waiting hands but seconds too slow.

The fighting had not easily abated. Walls of flame, that rose and lit the sky with monstrous images that bit and clawed, had drawn the battle into the night and there was no rest, only the crush of flesh on flesh and the beat of the living as they trod upon and fell among the dead. As morning bloomed, sky glistening with clouds thick, smothering, the men had begun to fail, tiring of intensity, falling upon their fellows for solace, for balance. It was then, as battle subsided that he had been vulnerable; when, raw from fighting and muscles singing with hurt that Aragorn, heir of Elendil, had reached for Athelas to numb his pain. It was then that he had been taken by hot hands that stank of metal and war. It was then, as strength withdrew, that he was grabbed and trampled, muzzled and bound, thrown to the slaves who with strong fingers held him, though he struggled against them until their skin was red and bled in streams. It was then that darkness came upon him, and held.

He had woken slowly, as pain would allow, with the drip of sweat entering his mouth. It had tasted of iron. His limbs had been stiff, clinging to one another within the oppression of bonds. Dry eyes at once wide and alarmed had fast surveyed the scene. He was flung across the coarse back of a camel, as though nought but a sack of wool. With limited vision he could gaze only into the vanishing distance ahead, monotonous with the thump of camels' feet and packs obscured by sand, men obscured by heavy cloth.

The dull pounding of camel feet shook his spine, flinging his bruised and broken ribs against the rough skin and causing him to wince with the blossoming pain. Twisting his neck Aragorn could make out the slim line of his sword rocking with the movement, ever south, of the camel ahead. His legs were bound, but the bonds were not tight and as they plodded forward he found that he could rub his shin against the supple leather of his boot, testing the smooth skin for memory. As his boots slid against him, he emitted a sudden hiss of pain, followed by a grim smile, hidden beneath sweat slicked hair that licked his face. He had felt a jagged clawing of blade against skin, he was not unarmed.

The men of the caravan were of few words and hard labour, hastily but not hurriedly they drove ever South, toward the line where mirage seemed to meet sand, an impossible target it seemed.

It had been late in the day when he had awoken unnoticed. As night drew the shards of evening beneath her heavy shroud a great thirst grew within him, for the air was dry and sharp as flakes of wood and flecked with dust. Now his tongue became heavy within his mouth, lolling to one side as the rhythmic tread of the camel thrust him ever away from the setting sun. The air became cold and fierce, but the caravan did not stop its descent into the south, nor did the captors speak a word to their captive. He could not see their faces in the lengthening shades, only the glint of their eyes as they turned briefly westward toward the setting sun. He twisted his neck to see the stars, but the heavens above were black as pitch and the stars were veiled.

At last the thirst overwhelmed him, his head seeming swollen with ache and crying with pain, his tongue would no longer fit between his teeth. It was at that point, nearing the middle of the night when he cried out for water in the common tongue,

'You do not wish me dead that is clear, for I live, but I shall die if you do not give me water.' A moment passed and he believed that his request had been denied, for the pace of his animal did not slacken and he could not hear the footsteps of the captors in the sand. He did not expect the neck of the bottle carelessly shoved between his bleeding lips or the water that flooded his mouth clean and sickly warm, filling the crevasses until it choked him and ran down his face. He coughed furiously, fighting for breath.

The voice that pierced the darkness answered in the same tongue, the accent foreign, but the words he spoke were soft and keen;

'Speak not another word, or I shall cut your tongue from between your lips. The night is yet newborn, and we have many leagues ahead of us. You will think this time without water short and precious before the end, for the way through the desert is long and strange and we shall not stop until sunrise."

At that he disappeared once more, a phantom of shadow, until only his eyes searching the heavens, merging like dim stars in the utter night. Aragorn spluttered, thrashing within his bonds to loosen his full throat, his gasping breath haunting the emotive silence that surrounded him. He did not know if they heard.

Sleep became dreams; dreams became vibrant washes of straining colours fighting for precedence. They shook him with grotesque masques that flitted between full vision and nothing with sudden cries like hungry birds. He felt that his eyes were open, but the ghastly cries did not relent; as his body cried for water so his mind wailed the same song.

The rhythm of the camel's movement rocked him, as though he were newborn.

The cry went up for attack with no warning, held in fitful dreams by dehydration he had seen and heard no preparation. An arrow whizzed through the sudden air, cold and threatening within the starless night and wide sands. The cry was in a tongue he recognised but as his senses dulled he could not make out the words. Swords clashed with swords and brief shards of silver flashed, brief as the moonshine. More arrows, they flitted in and out of his vision as his bound head lolled. One passed perhaps an inch above his nose, but he did not fear it, instead, despite himself the rush of battle grew within him and he was impatient to see what could be seen, perhaps this was the chance for escape.

In blinding symmetry two arrows flew to unknown targets, one wreathed in writhing flame, lighting the sky in bursting sparks, the other silent and light as a whisper of breeze. The man gazed entranced by the soaring flames, the first light since sundown, taking in the fleeting brilliance of the escaping sparks. His eyes unblinking felt the lick of reaching fingers as the arrow flew across his face, scorching sharp gullies into his bare cheek, shimmering within his bear and he could smell the charred hairs. The second he saw not, but even as the first buried itself within the scalp of his camel, another swept his skin, his skull, and then thrust itself deep within the flesh of his thigh. The jolt was like a roll of thunder that plunged through him, shaking each bone in turn, like a sweeping storm. His parched throat did not even emit a cry, but his lips were caught in a wide cry, parched and bleeding, the held his pain in a still, silent frame.

At the kiss of the arrow, the camel's head leapt into flames. In his own wrenching pain Aragorn could hear the terrible weeping of the dying animal, the smell of burning flesh filled his nostrils and even as shock overwhelmed and he felt that there was no liquid left within him, he vomited at the stench of such devilry. Dread besieged him and his mind was full of the sickening smell, the fear to die like this, in such agony. The beast roared, shaking its flaming head and then tumbled trapping the man beneath his blazing body, breaking the arrow and crushing the rest within him. The flames were sprinting now, across the hairy skin and the man fought in utter desperation against the ropes that still held him keenly, bound flesh to flesh with the dying animal, soon they would burn together. His chest tightened beneath the heavy burden he now bore and breathing became more difficult as smoke consumed him within its choking cloud. His chest closed and he thought that he would never breathe again.

When he awoke he felt strangely light, as though he floated through the air upon thin wings. The choking smoke had been replaced by wisps of morning mist and swirling sands. He stank of sweat and burning flesh, but the crushing flesh had disappeared, the morning appeared warm and hazy, a brief relenting before the brazen sun claimed her daily victory. Pain stalked through his body, sending spasms of nausea through his limbs into his throat as he rolled over onto the wound where the arrow head lay secret and deadly deep beneath his swelling skin. Fighting the sickness he turned onto his side then halted in surprise. He could move, his hands were light and swift once more, his head was not heavy with too much blood.

Feeling balance relent, he staggered to his feet, only to find himself thrown roughly to the ground by the shattering sting that rose from his left leg. His mind, still groggy from his night of unconscious reverie, found focusing difficult, but shaking from the shock of ache he reached slowly down to the place where the arrow had dug. His fingers, well versed in injury found a jagged cut, that flamed warm and scarlet with infection, something was trapped within, with nausea rose once again in his throat as he ran his charred fingertips across the sharp lump beneath the skin.

Looking forward into the growing daylight he saw bodies scattered, wrapped in cloth pale and dark like shrouds, hiding even their faces from the unforgiving blaze of midday. He remembered the words, soft and cruel that had come to him in the night, no water, if water no limbs. He wondered from which featureless bundle those words had emanated. Putting out his hands before him he crawled upon his raw right knee, dragging the left leg lifelessly behind. Several times pain seemed that he would claim him and that death beneath the heavy sun would be the merciful choice. But this man was of neither frail mind, nor body, but descended from great kings. His body could endure much and he had much to live for. Wrenching his thoughts from the cool, enticing shades of the halls of Mandos, he set his teeth against the pain, and clearing his mind of all other thoughts, filled his senses with the one that he loved until it seemed that even the sand did not slip through his tired fingers but her hair, so soft and fine, smooth finely woven cloth. 'Ai Elbereth' he muttered, what would he give to have her once more within his arms. Was that never to be his fate?

The effort was almost too great, but at length he reached the body that lay closest to him. Reaching out he pulled back the pale cloth that shrouded the mystery of the other's features. At once he peered into the captor's face. This man was darker than he with eyes like savage gems, now dulled, rolled back as though focused upon some distant place beyond the morning. Pained by any loss of life, even that of a captor, Aragorn whispered a quiet word of prayer in Sindarin and closed the lifeless eyes beneath the smooth lids. Searching beneath the folds of winding fabric he found his ultimate desire; a thick skin of water was fastened to a thin belt, clasped around a tunic of gentle silk.

Aragorn released the skin and took a long sip. Feeling relieved he peered around himself. The sun, now high above was scorching, filling his eyes with heavy light so bright that he had to shut them against the blighting rays. Squinting, even his keen sight could not reach further than a few yards ahead into the shattering ardour of the sun's piercing brilliance. Fear gnawed once again within his tired mind. He could not move in such vivid heat, it beat upon his head and seemed to burn through his very skin. Sweat poured from his skin and he did not know whether its cause lay in the desert warmth or in the fever which emanated from the infection within his thigh. One thought penetrated the fear, he could not move in such violent heat, for death abode already at his side and his reach was lengthening. Aragorn began hastily to wrap the shrouding cloth from the man's body until it seemed to flow wide as the Anduin as far as his eyes could see. Taking the long cloth he began to wrap it around himself, wondering as he did whether it might become his own shroud. Having cloaked himself against the scornful sun he lay down and slept until the stars once more hung above his head.

So he continued for many days that merged with all time until he could no longer sense any change except the waxing and waning of the terrible, wrathful sun and the raising of the strange stars which seemed never fixed but meandered across the sky in paths his eyes had never before known. The night took him on paths untrodden by any that he had ever known, some compulsion driving him ever south as his water skin grew lighter and the images of dehydration more intense. He was no longer alone, but haunted, hunted by day and night with visions of ever present fear, screeching sprites that cursed the heir of Isildur, proclaiming his title to the sleeping sands. Fever grew and his head was hot and heavy and he did not even know that he stumbled yet onward, swiping invisible flies with hot fingers that dripped with sweat that softened and stung the blistered skin.

So he wandered until water had dried and he was ready to fall. Until death appeared before him, her loving arms so pure and cool lifting fingers toward his fiery brow. When the walls of the Kingdom in the sand appeared before him, but metres from his touch, he did not reach them but stumbled for a final time and did not rise but rested in the simmering sand, that seethed against his skin and did not fight it. He believed that he had stumbled into a mirage of his own making, for he had long since relinquished the true world and her endless desert. A gust of hot wind blew around him and sand swirled around him. With a final effort he crawled forward through the heavy mists until he hit something solid and sheer, something that felt like wood and he could not pass it. So it was that Aragorn son of Arathorn knocked upon the door of the city of the King of far Harad, King of the city in the sand.


	3. The Land of the Blood Red Sun

The language I have used for that of the Haradrim is largely based on Chinese. However meanings may not always be exact. I hope that you think it works.

The Land of the Blood Red Sun

The morning broke rapidly over the citadel, through empty frames of arched windows, dimmed with flowing drapes thin as desert dust. But half an hour waned between the fading of the deep chasm black sky and the coming of the sun, red as flowing blood, to full bloom. Each day she laid her trail across the scorched Earth crowning at midday, whilst all those within lay in shadows in hiding from her searing gaze, waiting for the cool fronds of dusk to sweep the heat from the evening. In the day the city seemed subdued, wasted. Feet hurried through the dusty streets, their owners allowing themselves but brief glimpses of their mighty empress sun before shading their eyes once more from her blinding glare. Most shunned the arid streets, so often pregnant with the blasting sands that fled the open desert plains.

But in the evening her streets were transformed. At the turning of the twilight to night, a fine rain would sweep the streets, washing the dust from the pallid tiles, cleansing the wear from all that lived within her walls. Children ran into the streets to greet the happy downpour. Grim men and dour women would raise the corners of the lips and whisper a day's blessing to their Gods and lovers would walk, side by side, veiled beneath the joyous fronds of palm trees, drinking in their green and heady scent. It was nourishing rain, the life without which the city could not breathe, would fade to another empty dune. This was the city of lamps, and twilit bazaars, but also a land of toil and little joy, for the sun blighted much that was and only under shadow of darkness did comfort cling.

It was at a late hour, as the last beads of rain like gems fell from the jasmine bushes, that Aragorn awoke after many days from a heavy fever laden sleep. His eyes flickered before he was aware, shuddering in a fitful grasp for consciousness, fighting the last tugs of death. But for all his effort he was not the first to greet his wakening. Within the silence of the healing house even the brushing of eyelashes was carefully noted, and even as Aragorn drew himself from his slumber the eyes of his guards were upon him noting each breath and waiting for the next. At length, having grappled for consciousness his eyes ended their flickering dance and began to focus. He started, and as he did a pain splayed across his chest, as though a rope had been drawn too tight around his ribs. He let out a ragged gasp and tried to sit up.

This is what he saw: he was in a room with floors of pale tiles and walls that seemed wrought of white plaster, unadorned but for four bright lamps that hung from each. Evening cast a dim glow across the cooling tiles and long shadows like dark fingers stretched across them, fading into murky corners. His pallet was placed in the centre of the room with his head against the back wall. At its corners stood four sentinels, clad in sombre red and tarnished mail, girt with swords and their helms were turbaned in white cloth, in the solemn twilight they appeared grim and tall, their deep set eyes ever watchful. They did not speak but stood aloof, peering seemingly unblinking at their captive patient. In his clearing mind their gaze seemed to Aragorn so intense that he began to believe that they looked not upon him but past him, caught in some joint and secret reverie, joyless and consuming. Still they seemed, even as the figures of the Argonath, the ancient stone Kings of Gondor, ever fixed in their watch upon the great River.

Having surveyed the scene, surprised by the lack of reaction on their faces, Aragorn groaned and tried to pull himself up. At this the empty faces of his guards suddenly altered, alert and fixed their eyes upon him anew, as if they were great hawks and he their prey. Hands flew to their weapons. Gasping once again at the slivers of sharp pain within his chest, a shadow of fear passed across Aragorn's mind at their hostile stance, for the men of the South were famed for their cruel and remote natures, hardened and embittered by their years struggling to make a life beneath the blighting sun and amidst the treacherous desert sands that few have dared to cross.

For a second the pain was too much and he doubled over in the agony. As he stilled the pain quietened, until it represented once more an unpleasant wedge between his ribs and a slight quickness of breath. Running his eyes across his body he found that his chest was bound with strong bandages of rough white cloth, a tightening across his left leg told him that his thighs were likewise bound. Reaching to his temple he found another bandage winding itself across his head, it was damp with sweat, upon his chin a smattering of stubble that seemed but days old. Widening his eyes once more from their wincing he met their sharp glance with his own in silent wonder, marvelling these grim sentries, who like spectres in the twilight had tended him, unlooked for and unmarked. Summoning the strength of his forebears to him, he spoke. The sound to him, within this silence like a tomb, seemed as bright as a nightingale in the darkness.

"I am grateful indeed for the healing hands that have bestowed such care upon me. Tell me, whom do I have the honour of thanking for this great attention?" Stuttering his praise, he spoke slowly and carefully using the common tongue.

A look passed between the silent sentries, perhaps in wonder at the fair words of this man who lay at their mercy. Emotion flitted and was gone, fading as though it had never been. They answered in the same tongue, their voices deep and thin, speaking with frigid intent.

'You have come to the land of the King. These are his houses of healing. We are his servants. You are at his mercy, stranger of the North.' The words seemed rehearsed and uniform, the words of a puppet. Aragorn became sure that were he to ask again, he would repeat the same verse. He started when they did not.

"What is your name, foreigner of the North?' spoke another positioned at his feet.

Aragorn considered the question carefully, twisting the possibilities in his mind. He was a man of many names, his identity known to few and yet sacred to him. Strider, for his long legs, Estel for his promise, Thorongil for his prowess with arms, Aragorn for his people and his father, Elessar for the future he spurned. At last he sighed, "In the North I am known as Strider,'

Pausing for breath, he wheezed gently as a fit of coughing caught his attention. He did not see the body that called for water, only heard the cold command. The tongue was unfamiliar to him, but not unknown and he understood the words that were spoken. 'Noi. Come hither!' The imperative was fierce and sharp as an arrow's point. 'Water for our guest.' Guest? Questions flitted through Aragorn's mind, was he a prisoner after all? If so, why was he guarded as a murderer, not a man found half dead beneath the stars? Who was this King at whose mercy he rested?

Straining against the knives that seemed still sharp beneath his skin he made to rise. At once the guards were reaching for their weapons, dagger whipped from hidden sheathes. At the slick whisper of blade against scabbard he sighed and fell once more amongst the pillows. Breath flowed from him in a heavy sigh. Carefully and without blinking, the sentries pushed their daggers once again from view where they remained, a deadly memory hanging in the air between them.

"Stree -dar" spoke the same guard, his tongue slow and disturbed by the foreign tongue. "That is a strange name. You say in the North you are known as Strider. You are known, but it is it not your true name? Speak the truth or you may feel the bite of our steel." Wincing at this cold response Aragorn replied, "As Strider I am known, for my long legs, but my father named me Estel, which is hope in his tongue." The word was flawless, sliding from his tongue as easily as water. It was a name but rarely spoken, but it remained the name of his heart. "Esh-tal" The word seemed uncomfortable for their mouths, the sounds unfamiliar, even ugly to foreign ears, but to Aragorn it seemed a thing of utter delight.

"If you speak the truth, as Esh-tal you shall be known here, for your legs are no longer than our own." Aragorn forced back a smile at this thin jibe, but peered upward to see if humour graced the expressions of his stern sentries, but their faces remained blank as stone.

Aragorn tired of the uncomfortable silence, he was a man of action and would not spend his days huddled against the walls of a healing house. He would receive little more from the captors he believed than a bruised cheek and a sharp rebuke. He rested his eyes on the guard who had spoken his name, addressing him, breaking the silent, rigid air once more.

"I am Estel, a traveller of the North, who was caught by the swaying winds of the desert, my feet carried me forth and I had no choice but to follow. Once again I thank you for your kindness in treating me. It would be to my honour if you would escort me to your king."

The words were bravely spoken, full of high praise and deference, yet they did not touch the cheerless watchers, who seemed once more trapped within their consuming reverie. At length one spoke, but his words did not answer his captive's questions. He seemed to be focused on a space beyond this room, his words, stamped across his memory, ancient, automatic.

"Few are those of the North whose feet have brought them south of the desert. This is the court of the great King Wanh Shangh-ah. Lord of the wide sands".

Aragorn listened, pondering the words in wonder at the proclamation of this title. Tales he had heard of the Lord of the wide sands, but they were few and laced with fiction. The King became a great dark lord, akin to Sauron himself, that flamed in the morning sun, with breath like smoke and smote all that went before him. Such were the tales of the far south spun amongst the men of Bree as they sat by their fires that crackled merrily. Now he was amongst the men of such legends and Strider, the long legged traveller of the north was speechless.

Even as he marvelled the mantra of the guards continued, measured tones that faded into monotony. They spoke of things he knew not of, but as they named them the fear within Aragorn grew, for their words seemed at once beautiful and terrible.

'You are in the land of Far Harad, hidden within the sands of the Great Southern desert, which in our tongue is, 'Hongyang Guo', the Land of the Blood Red Sun.'


End file.
